


When John Met Sherlock

by WritingQuill



Series: At the Movies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), When Harry Met Sally (1989)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Domestic, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Giggling like school boys, Humor, Jealous!John, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they met, John hated Sherlock. The second time, John didn't remember him. The third time, they became friends. They were friends for a long time -- then they weren't. And then...  they fell in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the incredible Nora Ephron film "When Harry Met Sally", directed by Rob Reiner, starring Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan. It's one of my all-time favourite films, and I thought it'd make a cute little Johnlock. Let me know what you think. Thank you!

_May, 2000_

John Watson did not like drinking wine, but he had a bottle in his hand anyway. More because his sister loved it and he loved her than anything. He roamed through the corridors trying to find the right flat. _Thirteen? Thirteen? Where the fuck is thirteen?_ , he asked himself, rolling his eyes at the futile complexity of the halls. _Fucking Oxford_ , he cursed inwardly. Finally, the cacophony found him. Music was blasting through the walls and he was able to use it to find his way. _A-ha!_ he cheered, smiling at the golden thirteen in front of him. John raised his hand to knock, but given the amount of noise that was coming out of the flat, he thought it would be best to just walk in. 

The flat was packed. Young people - a few years younger than himself, John mused with a sigh - were dancing around, drinking, smiling and generally being obnoxiously happy. He grinned at some girls as he made his way through the crowd in order to find Harriet. 

'You know where Harriet is?' he asked one of the girls near the table-serving-as-a-bar. She smiled and nodded, then pointed at an agglomerate of university undergraduates standing around in a circle. 

'Shots!' the girl yelled back. John nodded, thanking her, then left to see his sister. He felt foolish holding the bottle of wine now. Apparently the "friendly gathering" had turned into a "full blow-out party" and Harry had forgotten to tell him. 

John rolled his eyes at the hipsters circling his sister. All with their spiky and colourful hair, mismatching clothes and rings anywhere-but-their-ears. Harriet was in the middle, raising a small shot glass smugly and drinking its content, then smiling at her competitor. 

'Harry!' John yelled, trying to get her attention. Unlucky as he was, she simply went on with her little competition. 'Harriet!' John tried once more, now a bit louder. He used the military voice he had inherited from his grandfather, who was in the army. A few of the people in the circle looked at him in fear, and Harry seemed to finally notice he was there. She smiled at the sight of him and patted her opponent on the shoulder boastfully. 

'Good luck next time, mate.' she said, then winked and walked towards John. 'Johnny!' she exclaimed and he winced. He hated that nickname. Which was why she used it. Evil queen. 

'Happy birthday,' he said, 'bit loud here, eh?' 

'It's just a party, Johnny,' she said, having to yell to be heard over the loud speakers. They hugged for a brief and awkward moment, then looked at each other without knowing what to say. 'Thank you for coming,' she said finally. 

'I wouldn't miss your birthday. Although I did think it was going to be a "small gathering". You know? Since that's what you told me…' he said, giving her a small smile. Harry's own grew wide and she shoved him slightly. 

'Well, I know this isn't your scene, but it's still a party, so enjoy yourself, doc,' she smirked. John chuckled. 

'Fine, fine. Go and have fun with your weird-looking friends,' Harry barked a laugh and left him to chat up a girl. Regarding her sexual orientation, John had always found Harriet to be very brave. She came out at fourteen, when the times weren't as accepting as the present, and stood proud, taking all the crap people gave her and making girls swoon over her everywhere she went. Sometimes John thought Harriet had more luck with girls than he did. With that thought in mind, he sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since arriving at this dodgy-looking party and decided to go get himself a proper drink.

About an hour later, John found himself leaning against a wall, feeling like he didn't belong. He hated that feeling. All those colourful people, talking about indie bands and obscure Dutch poetry, made him feel like a giraffe standing out in the middle of a herd of sheep. Or perhaps he was the lone sheep in the midst of the rainbow of Amazonian creatures, since he was the one that could fit into normal society, with his cable knit jumpers, jeans and loafers, while they did all they could to stand out, being loud and obnoxious and not giving a shit about The Man. Even if The Man did pay for their posh education, given that The Man was usually one of their parents. 

John was lifted from his musings by the sound of what was most certainly a slap. Then the sound of liquid hitting someone. He looked towards the sound and saw a pink-haired girl, her cheeks covered with the mascara that had run down from her eyes, - _probably crying_ , John guessed - stomping away, clearly distressed. John figured she was the one that did the slapping and the drink-throwing. He looked around the corner and saw a tall figure standing still, head bowed, hair dripping with some kind of alcoholic beverage. There was a bloke standing next to him, eyes dark with annoyance and distaste. 

'Fuck, Sherlock! I was chatting her up! I can't even leave you alone with a bird for two fucking seconds!' he spat, shoving the tall one slightly. 

John smirked at the sight of that small quarrel. He knew very well the effects of drunk mates on potential bed-partners. A bit Not Good. 

The tall bloke - Sherlock, apparently - turned to face his friend with a snort. When he spoke, John was stunted for a second. The baritone filled his ears and made his spine quiver. 

'I apologise, Sebastian,' he said, sarcastically. And clearly not drunk. John raised an eyebrow. 'It's not really my fault she was being insufferably dull, just like the rest of this horrid party you insisted I attended.' John could almost feel the eye roll that followed that speech. He chuckled silently and leaned back on the wall, watching the exchange with amusement. 

Sebastian - John was glad they had names now, _tall bloke_ and _bloke_ were just not doing it - huffed and shook his head. 'Yes, I was rather stupid. Now if you'll excuse me, Your Highness, I'll try and chat up one of these artsy girls. By myself.' He turned and left. Sherlock was left there, shaking his head. He mumbled something, but John didn't really understand what it was. 

'Are you just going to stand there?' Sherlock asked. It took him a second before John realised the question had been directed at him. 

'Excuse me?' 

'I've always heard that eavesdropping is rather impolite,' Sherlock said, turning to face John, which made his breath catch slightly once more. Sherlock's hair was still a bit damp from the drink, but the dark curls somehow remained intact and ruffled all over the place; his eyes were grey and blue and green, and were boring John with scrutiny. But the most impressive features of that ghostly pale face where the high cheekbones that were probably able to cut sheets of metal, they were so sharp. His lips were pursed, but the cupid's bow remained. Sherlock seemed annoyed at John's stare, and raised an eyebrow. 

John gathered himself before speaking, trying not to get caught staring at those cheekbones. 'Well, hm, this is a free country. I was just standing here, minding my own business, when you and your friend started having an argument,' John smirked. 'Not really my fault that was most interesting thing in this party.' 

Sherlock mirrored his smirk and nodded. 'You're not here because you want to,' he stated. 'This is Harriet Watson's party. She's known for her drinking and obnoxious friends, but that's obvious looking at this party. You, however, are dressed in sensible clothes, clean shaven and cut. And you've had that drink for about forty minutes. So I can only assume you dislike drinking. Now, you're young, too young to hate drinking yet, and you seem quite comfortable with the glass in your hand, which means that you are uncomfortable drinking _here_ ,' Sherlock said, so quickly, John had trouble keeping up. 'That leads me to assume that the there are two reasons why you don't want to be drinking at this party. The first it that you don't want to be here, because you can't relax around these people, and the second is that Harriet Watson is probably a relative of yours, and you don't want to drink at her party because of her habit, which affects you directly, so I'd say she's your sister. That's why you're here. And that is why you look so awkward,' Sherlock finished, looking smug. John gaped at him, completely taken aback by his… what? Guesses? Deductions? Was he a friend of Harry's?

'How did you know all that?' John asked, after he managed to get a few of his wits back. 

'I didn't know, I noticed,' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 'That's the problem with people, they see things, but they don't observe.' 

John nodded, licking his lip nervously. 'I see.' 

'Well?' Sherlock asked after a beat.

'What?' 

Sherlock huffed in impatience, growling a bit. 'Did I get anything wrong?' 

John smiled. 'I'm not drinking tonight because I'm driving back to London after this,' he explained. 'I don't mind drinking around Harry, but it's not like I do it that much anyway.' 

Sherlock sighed and casually punched the air around him with a fist. 'Always something!' he exclaimed, at which John chuckled.

'Sorry, mate. But that was quite something,' he said. 'I get why that girl threw her drink in your face now.'

'Are you going to throw _your_ drink at me?' asked Sherlock defiantly. John grinned. 

'Nah, don't want to waste any whisky. Besides, as I said, it was quite something. Really extraordinary.' 

Sherlock seemed stunned for a moment, but he quickly recomposed himself. 'That's not what people normally say.' 

John raised an eyebrow. 'What do they normally say?' 

'Piss off.' John chuckled and nodded. Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards and they just stared at each other for a long few minutes.

John was the first the break the gaze, moving his eyes away to glance around the room. He cleared his throat and chuckled awkwardly. He was feeling a bit nervous, having just been on the receiving end of what he figured was a famous _Sherlock Scrutiny_ , but a part of his jitters came from the fact that he wasn't at all put out by it. Actually, John thought this Sherlock guy was quite brilliant. Maybe he'd like to--

'Hey, Johnny!' Harry jumped on his back, throwing her arms around his neck and startled John. 

'Jesus, Harry, don't do that!' he snapped and Harry giggled. 

'Boo, Johnny, you're such a bore!' she then turned to Sherlock and smirked. 'And who are you?' 

'Sherlock Holmes,' he replied, sounding bored as ever. John couldn't help but grin at that. 

'Oh, yes! I've heard of you! Heard that you are terribly annoying, guessing things about people just by looking at their finger nails or something,' Harry bantered, her speech almost a slur at the end. John wondered how many drinks she had had that night, sighing at the thought of his baby sister being so careless so young. 

'I don't _guess_ , I _deduce_ ,' Sherlock condescended, sounding as if he were speaking to a slow-witted toddler. 'I just observe the ridiculously obvious clues people so carelessly forget about.' 

Harriet snorted and shook her head, 'I don't believe you. It's a load of rubbish, that. I bet you're just a creepy stalker.' She winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John cleared his throat once more and decided it was time for someone to step in before they started killing each other. 

'Actually, he's quite extraordinary. He just did it with me, and we'd never met before tonight,' he told her. 

With a quirk of an eyebrow, Harry smirked at Sherlock. 'Alright, then, Holmes, show me what you've got.' 

'You want me to deduce you?'

'Nope,' both John and Sherlock raised eyebrows at her. 'I want you to tell me three things about Johnny here that I don't know. He'll then say whether it's true or not. But no cheating,' the last part was directed at John, with the point of an index finger on the tip of his nose. 'Go on, then, Mr. Genius.' 

'Very well,' Sherlock nodded pointedly, standing up straighter and scrutinising John again with his intense stare. With a shiver down his spine, John looked away and tried not to fidget too much. 'He hates your friends...' 

'I already knew that,' Harry said defiantly. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. 

'Yes, but I was not finished.' he glared at her and continued. 'He hates your friends and thinks they are a bad influence on you. He wonders if had he been there more throughout your life, you would have socialised with the right kind of people.' 

John felt his cheeks burn as Harry stared at him. 'Is that true?' she asked. 

'I suppose, yeah… Thanks, mate,' John shrugged at Sherlock, whose lips twitched upwards again. 

'Okay, what else?' Harry squinted at Sherlock and crossed her arms. He nodded. 

'He hasn't had sex in three months,' Sherlock announced and John blushed further. Harry giggled. 

'Really, Johnny? Three months? And here I was thinking you were a stud.' 

John glared at Sherlock. 'Medical school doesn't exactly give me much time to shag every girl I meet.' he defended himself. 'Besides, between school, sleep and work, I barely have enough time to eat, let alone meet girls.' 

Still laughing, Harry nodded. 'Fair enough. Last one, now, super-genius.' 

Sherlock smirked and sighed. 'Finally, then, John is thinking of joining the army.' 

Time stopped. 

John felt Harriet gasp on his side, and his insides turned to ice. 

Yes, he was thinking of joining the army. Just _thinking_. He wasn't sure yet, but he really wanted to. He grandfather had been an army doctor and it was good for him. Discipline and responsibility. The knowledge one is actually _making a difference_. But he wasn't sure. He didn't want to worry his Mum or his sister with this information because he wasn't sure. 

And now here comes this prick and says it like it's nobody's business. Fucking cock, he was. 

'What?' Harry managed to ask after about half a minute of pure awkward. John shivered again, but it wasn't good this time. He could feel this was the calm before the storm. Now Harry was going to freak out, yell at him, then call their mother and tell her everything. 

_Fucking cock!_

She turned to face John, her eyes angry as he'd ever seen them, and filled with yet-to-fall tears. He held his breath, waiting for something to happen. A slap, a shriek, a yell, but it never came. No, she just sighed loudly, turned again and ran for the bathroom. 

John then face Sherlock, who seemed confused about what was happening. 

'You really haven't told her about joining them army?' he asked and John could almost punch him. 

'No, I bloody haven't, you prat!' he cried, clenching his fists. 'I haven't told her yet because I'm still not sure I'll do it!' 

'But you want to do it.' 

'It doesn't matter! It's dangerous and complicated and a fucking huge commitment, and I was still thinking it through, so I could give my family all the facts! You've just bloody ruining everything, you daft prick!' John exclaimed, his voice an octave higher. He could tell his ears were probably maroon because he could feel them burning with anger. Oh, it would be so very easy to punch that perfect little face. Right in the nose. But he refrained from doing that. 'You are not even going to apologise, are you?' 

'For what? I haven't done anything wrong. She dared me to tell her three things she didn't know about you and I did. There were no rules after that.' 

'Well, I would have thought common fucking courtesy could be a rule!' 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and it was all John could do not to kick his posh arse into the next year. He then decided that talking to his sister would be more important than arguing with the bloody idiot standing in front of him, so John sighed and shook his head. 

'You know, for a second I actually thought you might be decent and that your friend was just a little too impatient or something.' he said, making sure his voice was dripping with disdain and disappointment. 'But I guess I was wrong, you are just an annoying little posh kid who likes to think he's better than everyone else because of a few clever observations,' he began to turn away, giving Sherlock a last look. Sherlock's eyes seemed sad and distant and he put a hand up. 

'John, wait--' 

'Piss off,' John said, turning around and walking away from Sherlock Holmes, hoping never having to face the bastard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story.


	2. A Chance Meeting

_December, 2005_

 

Sherlock was bored. True, he was always bored, but now, having to listen to Victor Trevor ramble about whatever it was that he cared about, Sherlock could easily scratch his eyes out from boredom. It was indeed very nice of Victor to bring him to the train station, but there was absolutely no need. Sussex was already unbearable as it was, without him having to actually _pay attention_ to what was happening around him. Cocaine would be brilliant right now. And he'd been meaning to try heroin… Sherlock knew that they weren't good for him, that the body could only withstand so much. But it was all transport anyway, so he searched his pocket for the cigarettes and lit one, feeling his shoulders relax instantly. 

'It was really, truly fascinating,' Victor finished and Sherlock faked a smile. He could always fake a smile and people believe him. If only they'd simply _observe_. 

It wasn't that he didn't like Victor, per se, it was just… Nothing. He wasn't dull like most people, but he didn't make Sherlock feel anything. It was just an interesting past time. They never had sex or anything, just talked. Victor was much too old for Sherlock to be even remotely attracted to him. And besides, he didn't even know if he felt attraction - well, he had felt it _once_ , but that had been a long time ago, and it did not end well, against Sherlock's better judgement. Victor was in his late thirties, and he had taught Sherlock's class in university, and a couple of years ago they had met at one of Mycroft's functions and started that purely intellectual relationship, albeit Sherlock knew Victor wanted something more. Why wouldn't he, anyway? Sherlock was young, somewhat vibrant and extremely good-looking. 

Sherlock sighed in agreement, glancing over his watch, noting that he still had fifteen minutes to wait. He was going to say something, but was interrupted. 

'Dr Trevor?' asked a voice from behind them. Victor turned and grinned at the invader. Sherlock turned as well and was surprised to see John Watson, from that horrible party he had attended at Oxford five years prior. 

'John Watson! Or should I say, Dr Watson?' Victor greeted, clearly happy to see him. He looked well-rested, happy and peaceful. Sherlock wondered if he remembered him, but apparently not, since he and Victor seemed to be ignoring him now. 

'Yes, yes, I got my degree,' said John, looking a bit embarrassed, his ears reddening. He chuckled and Sherlock noticed that he seemed much stronger. His biceps were noticeably larger, and his shoulders seemed more set. Exercising, then. Had he finally decided upon joining the army? 'How's life?' he asked, looking genuinely curious. 

'Can't complain. Working for the government now, top secret stuff,' Victor winked and John smiled. 'What about you? Still at Bart's?' Sherlock wondered if Victor had taught him at Bart's or if they had met in a social function. He felt a strange clench in the bottom of his gut, and it was most certainly not directed at Victor. 

'No. Joined the army. I'm on leave now, visiting some relatives… Actually, I should be getting on the train,' John looked at his watch and gave an apologetic smile. They shook hands, Victor bid his good-bye and left. 

'He doesn't remember me,' Sherlock said, sounding more shocked then he wanted. 

'You've met before?' 

Suddenly remembering Victor was there, Sherlock stared at him and nodded. 

'At a party, five years ago. Oxford. I believe the last words the said to me were "piss off",' he said and Victor smirked. 

'Maybe that's why he doesn't remember, then. Anyway, you should be getting on the train,' Victor squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary, then left. Sherlock then turned, determined, and walked to the platform and into the train, going through the coaches in search of one John Watson. 

He was sitting on a table seat, just starting to get comfortable for the two-hour train ride to London. Sherlock exhaled deeply and sat opposite to him, placing his bag loudly on the table. 

'I cannot believe you don't remember me,' he said, startling John, who looked up with wide eyes. Then they softened. 

'Of course I do,' he smirked. 'You're the twat who told my sister I was joining the army.' Sherlock was surprised at how nonchalant John sounded. He pulled himself together, straightening his back and arching his neck like a peacock. With a faint grimace, Sherlock crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. 

'And you clearly went on with it,' he commented, at which John grinned. 

'Ah, you still do that thing. I was hoping it'd be a university phase, and you were finished with being a complete prick to others,' John chuckled, which left Sherlock puzzled once more. _What is wrong with him? Why is he laughing as if I'm amusing?_

'I can't exactly turn it on and off, now, can I,' Sherlock sneered and John nodded. 

'You can _not_ say every little thing that comes to your mind…' he sang silently, still grinning, which Sherlock found both extremely annoying and most endearing. _Odd._

'Dull,' he replied, at which John laughed out loud. Sherlock didn't think he was being particularly amusing, but perhaps John had a strange sense of humour. He did find Sherlock entertaining until the whole telling-the-sister-about-the-army debacle. 

'Of course it is… Manners, why bother?' John finished, giving Sherlock a warm look and proceeding to tap his fingers lightly at the table in front of him. Sherlock felt the unbearable urge to reach out and hold his hand. But he wouldn't. He would never in a million years do that. It was absurd. 'How have you been, anyway?' John asked, pulling Sherlock from his reverie. 

'Fine,' he said curtly. Then, decided that perhaps John deserved a decency, he asked,'and you?' 

'Good,' John said, adding two more syllables to the middle of the word. Sherlock raised his eyebrow once more and his companion nodded. 'I'm returning from my girlfriend's parents' house. Well, I suppose she's my fiancée now…' 

Sherlock's eyes widened and he felt something close to… _disappointment? John is getting married… To a woman… He's in the army and he is a doctor and he's going to get married to a woman and form a family… How utterly predictable and ordinary,_ Sherlock thought, managing to to turn a sigh into a subtle exhale. 

'I believe congratulations would be in order, then,' Sherlock wished stiffly. John smiled, those dark blue eyes filled with a warmth that made Sherlock's belly feel weird. 

'God, I forgot how posh you were…' John laughed. His face was tanned and there were a few lines around his eyes. Not because of age, but due to extreme exposure to sunlight. He'd been to war already. He'd been to war and held a gun and maybe killed people. And yet, John was still warm and friendly and willing to forget that Sherlock did an incredibly stupid thing and be nice to him. He was being nice to Sherlock. Willingly. Laughing with him and playfully mocking him. 

Puzzling indeed. 

'How come you don't hate me?' asked Sherlock, genuinely curious as to why this man of all people, who'd have all the reasons to call him a freak, didn't. John was silent for a few beats, then his face fell a bit and he sighed. 

'Look, Sherlock, I've seen things, okay? Terrible, horrible things. There is so much evil in this world. Proper evil, cunning, bad. You are not that, you don't deserve to be hated because of an ability you were born with. And I won't waste the precious time I have in England hating people, because it's just not worth it. Okay?' he then opened a dashing smile and winked. 'Besides, Mary's always said I'm way too good to be mad a someone for so long.' 

Suddenly, Sherlock felt himself smile earnestly, which was rather odd because he never smiled. Never truthfully, and never at someone else. But now he did, and John was smiling back, and that feeling on his belly only got worst and he had no idea what was happening to him. 

* * * 

Paddington Station was busy as always, and as they made their way out the train and into the platform, Sherlock didn't know why but he wanted to keep talking to John. He also didn't know how to go about that, since he had never wanted to remain with whomever he was, rather preferring to get rid of them as soon as humanly possible. 

'Well, at least the train ride wasn't boring,' commented John, halting in front of Sherlock and extending him one hand. Sherlock stared at it before he realised John wanted to shake hands. _Right. Manners_ , he thought, gripping John's hand with his own, feeling that smooth skin, calloused at the corners and in the fingers, small yet strong. 

'Indeed,' Sherlock felt himself smiling again. He had smiled a total of eight-point-five times during the ride, which was, by his calculations, around 67.3% more than he had smiled on a monthly basis in the past three years. They fell into a somewhat awkward silence for a beat, before John spoke again. 

'Well, it was good seeing you again, Sherlock. I do have to get going, though. So, hm…' he trailed off, staring at their feet, then looking up and smiling sheepishly, 'have a nice Christmas.' 

Sherlock's stomach dropped, if such thing was possible. A nice Christmas. Sherlock never had nice Christmases. There was too mush fussing, too much Mummy and Mycroft. Nevertheless, he wanted _John_ to enjoy his Christmas. Holidays were important, apparently, for the normal people. So he nodded and smiled. 'Yes. Have a happy Christmas as well, John.' 

John gave him another heart-warming smiles - although by that point, Sherlock was beginning to think that all of John's smiles would warm his heart. He gave Sherlock a friendly pat on the shoulder, winked and waved, then turned and left. Sherlock stood in the middle of the station, feeling the heat from John's touch on his shoulder slowly dissipate. After an appropriate amount of time, he stood straighter, re-assumed his usual nonchalance and walked towards the exit of the station.


	3. And finally...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second-to-last chapter, supposed to represent the part of the movie where they met for the third time. Even though it says "February" at the top, the whole thing goes through A Study in Pink, the Blind Banker and The Great Game, plus a few additional scenes that tickled my fancy.

_February, 2010_

It was unusually sunny for a February morning, so John decided to take a walk after his frankly frustrating session wit Ella. He knew it was going to come to bite him in the arse later on in the day, but he couldn't give a shit. John limped along the streets, cursing his leg inwardly at every wince of pain. He was walking along Green Park, trying to make himself admire the beautiful weather and absorb the contagious laughter of the children playing around him, but it was too damn hard. It was too hard to pay attention to anything, with that sodding leg and shoulder, that shivering hand and the vivid memories of nightmares. 

As he limped past one of the police-boxes-turned-coffee-stands, John heard a voice calling him in the distance. 

'John? John Watson?' he turned to face a ghost from the past. John never thought about his time at uni, never lingered on those happy memories of simpler times, because it was just too sad. His life was a mess now, everything was in shambles. He was a broken man, and now his long-gone past had come back to haunt him. He cursed mentally and smiled at his greeter, Mike Stamford. 

* * *  
Following Mike along the corridors of St Bart's felt like… home. Like time had never passed. Well, not quite. The equipment was definitely more advanced and the whole place looked a lot more modern, but there were still residents running around, looking like zombies from the 30-hour shifts, and nurses, ever-wise, taking care of them and the patients, so that everything ran smoothly. 

They walked past the medical ward and into the area of the research labs. A mousy-looking girl with light brown hair in a ponytail ran past them with a determined look, without bothering to talk to Mike, who had actually raised a hand to wave at her. Mike chuckled and muttered something under his breath, but went on walking. Reaching a set of double-doors at the end of the corridor, Mike turned to face John with a smirk. 

'Here we go,' he said, opening the doors and letting himself and John in. John limped inside, taking a good look around, marvelling at the differences. 

'Bit different from my day,' he commented, at which Mike chuckled. 

'Mike, can I borrow your phone?' a bored voice came from the end of the room. A tall man, dressed impeccably with unruly black curls, staring into a microscope. John recognised his voice and, looking further at the man, he recognised him. 

'Sherlock bloody Holmes,' John said, with a grin, staring a the man at the microscope, who looked up startled. His features - still incredibly good-looking, maybe even more, now he was certainly clean of drugs - softened and his mouth twitched upwards. 

'Indeed,' he smirked. Mike seemed confused, especially after Sherlock continued. 'John Watson, you did end up going to war after all. Afghanistan or Iraq?'

John smirked and pinched the bridge of his nose, 'Afghanistan.' 

'I gather you need a flatmate, then,' Sherlock said, still typing on John's mobile. Mike looked thoroughly confused by now, and John could just about burst into hysterical laughter just by looking at him. 

John chuckled and nodded. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that deduction thing. It seemed to unreal, like magic, and yet, it happened. He searched in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. 

'Here, you can use my phone,' he said, instead of replying to the question because, well, one could do a lot worse than Sherlock Holmes as flatmates went. And, besides, at least it would be interesting, and John really needed interesting right about now. 

* * * 

It had been one of the strangest days in John Watson's life, and that was saying something, because he had been to war! 

First, meeting Sherlock in front of the flat. Well, that bit wasn't strange. The fact that his new landlady had hired Sherlock to ensure her husband got sentenced to death in Florida was the strange bit. Also the amount of science equipment in the _kitchen_. And the bison head between the sitting room windows, which was wearing blue headphones of all things. 

And apparently, Sherlock was a "consulting detective" - helping the police when they're out of their depth, which is always - and that meant he got to help out with the ongoing investigation of the four serial suicides. Which meant that now John was helping out with the investigation, through no fault of his own. Or want, really. Except that, yes, he kind of wanted to do it. It was exciting. Although the being-kidnapped-by-arch-enemy bit was very much Not Fun. 

Now John was being led by a plump Italian bloke with a smiley face and touch knuckles to a window seat at Angelo's. They sat and Angelo offered them a candle to make it more romantic. John assured him they weren't a couple, that that wasn't a date. Didn't work. 

'You were getting married,' Sherlock said, looking out the window, probably searching for the person to whom John sent the text. John nodded and looked down at his hands. He hadn't talked to Ella about it yet, didn't know if she'd understand, or make him go talk to Mary. 

'Mary and I broke up two years ago,' John told him. Perhaps he could tell Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't ask questions, he probably wouldn't even remember this conversation in the future. He wouldn't make notes and say John had "trust issues".

After a beat, Sherlock gave him a strange look, as if assessing the situation. John wondered if he was pondering what would be the protocol to follow. 

'I loved her, and I think she loved me. But… I couldn't give her what she wanted. A house, children, stability, living in the country, a sheltered life, all that. And she couldn't live with not knowing if I'd ever come back,' John confided, even though Sherlock never asked. It was good to say it out loud. 

'Love,' Sherlock muttered, but never elaborated. John cleared his throat and stared at the candle in the middle of the table. 

'What about you? Any girlfriends?' 

'Not really my area…' Sherlock said, still lost in thought, staring back out the window. John gulped and nodded. 

'Boyfriend, then? Which is… fine, by the way.' 

'I know it's fine,' Sherlock barked and John nodded once more. 

John thanked the gods that the conversation that followed, in which Sherlock proceeded to say that he was "married to his work" and John assured him that "it was all okay", was interrupted by Sherlock seeing what he had been looking for. Both of them ran out the restaurant, leaving the food behind, and started chasing the cab. 

John couldn't remember ever feeling this alive outside the war zone. The blood thumping in his ears and his heartbeat echoing around his body. He could feel his lungs and his muscles and every single pore seemed to scream in joy as they broke into happy sweat. A genuine smile played in his mouth, and he felt truly happy. Blissfully so, as he and Sherlock panted their way into the flat, leaning against the entrance wall, giggling like school boys. 

And then Sherlock was being a genius again, then hurtful, then unbearable, then gone. And when he was gone, John could feel that something bad was about to happen. He checked the GPS on the laptop and sighed, picking it up and running for cab, because now Sherlock was being plain _stupid_. 

By the end of the evening, John had had his psychosomatic limp cured by his insane new flatmate, chased a cab around London, had to deal with the police twice, shot a man, - _a bad man_ \- met a member of the British government and gone for Chinese. 

And when he lay his head down his old pillow and looked around his new room, John could tell that this was going to work just fine. 

* * * 

Sometimes John had nightmares. 

Sherlock seldom slept, so when John came down the stairs in the middle of the night, looking frightened and dishevelled, took it upon himself, no idea why, to take care of him. Mostly because he knew John wouldn't hold it against him with "I knew you weren't a sociopath" comments, or take advantage of him in the future. No, John was a good person. So when he woke up from those horrible dreams, Sherlock put a cup of warm milk in his hand and played a soothing melody with his violin. 

And every time that happened, when he climbed back upstairs, with a more relaxed set of shoulders and a somewhat content smile on his face, John turned back to face Sherlock and whispered 'thank you', in such gratitude that it warmed Sherlock's chest more than he thought possible. 

* * * 

Medical school taught you at least one thing: not to be disgusted by dead bodies. 

What it didn't teach you was how to deal with said dead bodies, or part of them - thank God for that - when they were next to the produce in your fridge. 

John inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying very hard not to run to the sitting room and choke his flatmate with the belt of his own silk dressing gown. 

'Sherlock!' he exclaimed, receiving only a grunt in response. _Fucking sulking, that bastard is_ , John thought, stomping towards the sofa where Sherlock lay, staring at the ceiling with a frown. 'Sherlock, why is there a foot next to the tomatoes?' 

Sherlock gave him a bored look and raised an eyebrow. 'Perhaps I should as you why are there tomatoes next to the foot?' 

John groaned and snapped his eyes closed. After a whole day of job hunting, he was not going to come home and take this abuse from this posh idiot. 'Sherlock,' he warned and Sherlock sighed, the ever-suffering Austen heroine. 

'Fine, John. I'll move the bloody foot!' it was Sherlock's turn to stomp, and he did so by making as much noise as he could. Because why act like a grown-man of the appropriate age of 29, when he could walk around the house like a 6-year-old? 

That thought actually made John smile fondly at his flatmate. He picked up the phone and turned to the kitchen. 

'Chinese for dinner?' he suggested. Sherlock's hand appeared through the door, waving off as if in dismissal. John knew by now that that meant "I am too cool to say that I want that, so by pretending I can't be bothered thinking about such nonsense, I'll make you make the decision" and so he dialled the number for their Chinese take-away and placed their order. 

* * * 

Sherlock absolutely _hated_ Sebastian. But he was offering money, and John had been moaning about not having money. So there they were, making their way to the bank in order to help the idiot solve a ridiculous "mystery". 

Which actually turned out not to be so ridiculous after all. 

Break-in only to leave a spray-painted message. Interesting. But to whom? Sherlock soon found out the message was suppose to be directed to Mr Edward van Coon, and so he and John set off to his flat. There they found van Coon dead, shot, _not suicide_ , and had had to work with Dimmock. Sherlock hated Dimmock, he was a right idiot. Even worse than Lestrade. At least Lestrade didn't question him. 

Van Coon's murder had been similar to how Mr Brian Lukis had been killed - both mean lived on top floors, the killer had had to climb. 

After a bit more searching in China Town, where van Coon's receipts had taken them, Sherlock found something odd about Soon Lin Yao's flat, and left John behind - of course, John would never stop moaning about that - to, for the lack of a better word, snoop. 

When they were almost close, so close, to finding the meaning of the numbers in the cypher, John decided the had a _date_. Or how he put it, "two people who like each other, go out and have fun", which was exactly what Sherlock thought they had been doing all along. It was fun, of course it was! And John loved it. Running, chasing, discovering facts, arresting criminals. But now he wanted to go out with the woman he met at the surgery. 

Sherlock knew that nothing good could come of John getting a job. 

But it all worked out for the best, since the date would give Sherlock the perfect opportunity to visit the Chinese circus. Of course, John didn't seem to appreciate Sherlock's tagging along, which was rather odd, since he normally enjoyed the company. He did say something about "getting off", but Sherlock deleted it. 

The end of the evening was no so satisfying, though. John and his date - Sherlock didn't care enough to remember her name - were kidnapped by the Chinese mafia, their leader mistaking John for Sherlock, which was absolutely preposterous! After saving them - well, John had helped, he always helped - the criminals were arrested by Dimmock and they returned to Baker Street, after having dropped off whats-her-name. 

'Best date ever,' cheered Sherlock as he and John climbed the seventeen steps up to 221b. John chuckled behind him. 

'Really? Was it? I don't know, Sherlock,' he began. 'Good dates normally don't involve getting kidnapped by the mafia, almost killed by a giant crossbow and having your flatmate as a third wheel.' 

Sherlock scoffed and turned to face John. 'Good dates are dull, John. Don't be so ordinary. This was the _best_. And, well, second best, technically.' 

John began laughing, which made that thing in Sherlock's chest warm again. It was getting really strange, perhaps he ought to see a doctor. Not… John, though. 

As they reached the flat and removed their coats, John sighed deeply, taking in the mess of books that was their flat. 'Right. We should clean this up,' he said defeatedly. Then, looking around once more, his shoulders fell. 'Nah, this can wait til morning. Tea?' 

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. 'Please.' 

* * *  
The few days of peace he had when Sherlock went to Belarus were over, John noticed. He arrived at the flat and heard gunshots, so he clearly thought that there was a struggle happening in the flat, because their lives were just strange that way. But no. No. Nothing so simple. 

Sherlock had painted a yellow smiley face on the well - with the spray paint from the Chinese mafia case, apparently - and was shooting at it. With John's Browning of all things. He was _bored_. Bored, still in his pyjamas and with that blue dressing gown hanging from his shoulders. 

Not only that, but there was also a severed head in the fridge. John could feel his rage begin to bubble up, and it got only worse after Sherlock's rant about his blog and the solar system. "All that matters is the work", he had said, the utter bastard. Sure, John thought, the work is so bloody important, it's all the work. Work, work, work. He couldn't stand it any longer. He could not sit in that flat with a sulking Sherlock and be trusted not to recharge his gun and kill him. Out, then. Pub, maybe. He could always call Sarah. 

John then put on his coat and left, really not caring at all if Sherlock sulked himself into an early grave at that moment. He greeted Mrs Hudson momentarily on the stairs and heard her comment about them having had a "domestic", which only made him more annoyed and more certain that did _not_ want to hang around Sherlock tonight. 

Pub it was, then. With Sarah. 

He never went past the sofa. 

Not that there weren't any opportunities, but things with Sarah never felt… right. Somehow he always ended up going back home or, like last night, staying on the sofa. 

After a bit of morning flirtation, John turned on the telly and his heart stopped. A bomb. Marylebone. Baker Street. _Sherlock!_ He ran out as soon as he could, deciding to take a cab, since the tube was hell this time of morning. 

Arriving there, he saw the building across the street from 221 in pieces. Windows across the street had wood covering them, and there was a crowd forming outside his door. He got past the police officers and entered the building, running up the stairs, praying that nothing happened to Sherlock or Mrs Hudson. 

And there sat the git. Completely _cool_ in his chair, playing idly with the strings of his violin, as Mycroft talked to him, asking for his help with a case that involved "legwork" - as he had said, derisively. 

John, then, apparently took charge of the Bruce Partington plans case, even though he know Mycroft had probably already solved it but was too lazy to do anything about it. 

(It truly amazed John how two remarkably intelligent people like the Holmes brothers could be so utterly lazy at times - more often than not, in fact) 

After that, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. The gas leak that caused the explosion was no gas leak at all. There was a strongbox in the room with a letter addressed to Sherlock. When they got to the Yard, Sherlock opened the letter and there is was, Jennifer Wilson's phone. Well, a perfect replica. 

The case was getting weird, and strangely personal. John was beginning to get worried about it, but Sherlock was getting more and more excited by the minute. It was a puzzle for him to solve, and he did love his puzzles. This could not end well, John imagined, but voicing his thoughts would only earn him a scoff and dismissal, so he kept his mouth shut. Even when they went into 221c and found a pair of shoes. Even when they got a call from a woman strapped to a bomb, telling him to solve the case i 12 hours. Even when they took the shoes to lab and Sherlock began examining them. Even when he deduced that the shoes belonged Carl Powers, a case from Sherlock's youth. And that was extremely personal. Who could have possibly known that? John was very worried, but it only made Sherlock the more eager to play the game. 

And then there was Molly's boyfriend, Jim. There was… something about him John didn't trust. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there definitely was something eerie about him. 

It had nothing to do with that fact that he had flirted with Sherlock. Or that he had given Sherlock his number. 

The pips kept coming, Janus Cars, then Connie Prince. But that's when John started to get really worried about Sherlock. 

He didn't even flinch at the thought of the old lady dying in the explosion, or all the other people for that matter. That concerned John. Sherlock's yearning for puzzles, his disregard for others' feelings, or deaths… John had always thought that he was misunderstood. That Donovan and Anderson were wrong to call him a "freak" - he still did think that, but the sentiment behind it didn't seem to foreign anymore - that he might actually _be_ the sociopath he claimed to be, even though John had started to consider otherwise. 

But there was no time for mourning, or thinking. Another body appeared and they had to start again. It was something about a lost Vemeer, a assassin named Golem and a consultant. The consultant. 

John remembered him from the Study in Pink case. Moriarty was his name, and he had helped the gallerina fake the Vemeer and take the money. Apparently this Moriarty guy was in the same boat as Sherlock - bored - and he had decided to strap semtex to people and give puzzles to Sherlock. A match made in Hell, John mused. 

Meanwhile, John had been investigating the Bruce Partington case for Mycroft by himself, but after the Vemeer, he was joined by Sherlock, since there had been no more calls from Moriarty. They managed to get Westie's brother-in-law to admit having killed him and stolen the flash drive, and went back home to wait. 

Sherlock was now sitting on his usual chair, watching Jeremy Kyle and yelling at the telly. 'Of course he is not the father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!' 

John chuckled at that image - it was an impossible image, that. Sherlock being like a normal human being. Well, normal. He could still deduce people on the telly and that was hardly _normal_ , but John liked it anyway, made him feel at home, and think that perhaps Sherlock was more human than he was given credit for. 

Having to go out, John bid his good-bye at Sherlock, who surprisingly promised to get milk and beans for the first time since John had moved in. He walked down the stairs with a small smile, the image of Sherlock at Tesco too amusing not to grin at. 

Then John walked past an alleyway. Then he felt a blow on the back of his head. Then it was all dark.

* * * 

After John left, Sherlock sighed. It was time to go. He typed the instructions on his website and stood up to leave. He then turned to the stairs, and up, to get John's gun, because it could be dangerous. After that, he left without looking back. 

_It's better this way,_ he thought. _John won't be in danger. I'll go alone and deal with Moriarty by myself. John doesn't even need to know._ The reason why he felt John's knowing would be Not Good and that he didn't want John to be mad at him were beyond Sherlock. He supposed it was because there was already friction between them, since the explosion of the building after the Connie Price puzzle. 

But Sherlock wasn't a hero. He was the furthest thing from that, actually. He wasn't good like John. He liked puzzles, mysteries, and he everything else was collateral damage. And Sherlock kept wondering how John had lasted the war with the thought that all lives matter, that all must be saved. 

Sometimes people had to die for plans to work. 

So Sherlock took the cab to the meeting place - the Swimming Pool where Carl Power had been found dead. Where Moriarty had killed him. 

Of course he had, that much was obvious. The reason why was the true mystery. Although, Sherlock could argue that Moriarty was simply bored. It's easy being bored when everything is so simple, so easy. 

Arriving at the Pool, Sherlock realised he was nervous. He left his coat by the entrance and adjusted the gun in his trouser pocket. Walking slowly now, Sherlock made his way to the main part of the Pool. 

And he was greeted by… John? 

John. John was Moriarty? That was impossible. No. He was… he was being used as a puppet. The last pip. John was the last pip. It was personal now. Sherlock had to be calm. He had to be calm to protect John, who was now in front of him strapped in semtex. 

Everything after that happened really fast. Sherlock could play it frame by frame in his mind still, but at the moment it had seemed like seconds. 

Moriarty appeared. He was Molly's boyfriend, Jim from IT. A devilish grin and an ophidian manner to his actions. Irish accent. Clean cut, well-dressed, much like Sherlock himself. Had that been on purpose? Had Sherlock misjudged his Moriarty's obsession with him? 

Then John jumped on him to protect Sherlock. He'd allow himself to be blown up if Sherlock lived. He'd die for Sherlock as he had killed for him. But there were snipers, and they were pointing at Sherlock's heart, so John let it go. 

After Moriarty left, Sherlock felt relief. Then the urgency to get John out of the bomb straps. Then more relief. But it had been too easy. Entirely too easy. No, this couldn't be over… It simply couldn't. 

And it wasn't. He appeared again. More snipers, and more of that laugh of his. "I'm so changeable", he had said. True, he was. Much like Sherlock again. They were two sides of the same coin, but Sherlock now realised he wanted nothing to do with that coin anymore. Jim had seen it before he did. His heart. 

Sherlock looked back at John as if asking for approval, and only got a nod. So he pointed at the bomb that had been thrown on the ground with the Browning. 

It seemed to amuse Moriarty. He was insane. Not like Sherlock at all, then. Sherlock wasn't insane, he knew that. He wasn't a psychopath. He didn't take… pleasure in the suffering of others. In fact, Sherlock noticed that, of late, whenever his flatmate was in distress, it made him uncomfortable. He did not like that feeling at all. 

So the call was welcome. Perhaps not for the person on the other side of the line, if the "skin you" bit was true. He was angry, annoyed, then calm. He apologised - _wrong day to die_ \- then walked out. The snipers were gone. Sherlock let out a relieved breath and went to check on John. 

They were okay. John was okay.


	4. But then...

Sherlock Holmes never had nightmares. He seldom slept as it was, so when he did it was more of a black-out than actual slumber. 

But that night, he could do little to keep the bad dreams at bay. He dreamt of the smell of chlorine. Of a bomb that never went off. Of a fictional explosion that tore his flesh apart, that tore John apart. He dreamt of that devilish grin and that manic laugh as John gasped for air in his arms and there was nothing left for him to do. 

Sherlock woke up in a startle. His face was wet. _Been crying, then,_ he deduced, sighing, and shivering at the aftermath of the bad dream. The sheets around him were drenched in sweat and he could feel his lungs gasping for air. 

'Sherlock?' he heard a voice ask from the other side of the door. Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes with one hand. _I woke John up with my nightmare,_ he mused, clearing his throat before speaking, realising how sore it actually was. 'Are you alright?' he asked again. 

'I'm fine, John,' but he couldn't have been, because not sooner did he finish the sentence than John entered the room. He looked at Sherlock with concerned eyes and sighed at the sight of his flatmate. Dishevelled, frightened, paranoid. 

'You are not fine. I could hear you from my room,' John said, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed. 'It's okay to have nightmares, Sherlock… It was a traumatic experience.' 

Sherlock chuckled humourlessly. 'It was hardly traumatic, John. Nothing happened!' he was frustrated. Why did his brain think it was okay to be afraid of things that had never happened? 

'It's not about what actually happened, though, is it?' John tilted his head a bit and gave Sherlock a small smile. 'It's about what could have happened. You may not have been aware, but your brain probably thought about a number of different outcomes for that situation, and now it's fixated on them. The bomb going off or the snipers hitting you… And _that_ would be nothing if not traumatising…' 

Sherlock stared at the wall for what seemed like long minutes. He had heard John's nightmares in the past. His cries for help, his yelps, his gasps, his whimpers. But not once did he think of entering his room to offer comfort. He didn't know how to offer comfort. Hugging seemed too much. A pat on the head accompanied by a "there, there" was something one did with their pets - and despite what Moriarty said, John was not _anyone's_ pet. So he just let his… flatmate? friend? feel terrified and alone. But John was here. He was trying to make Sherlock see the reasonable explanation for what was happening to him, because he knew how to comfort. John _was_ comfort. He was home. He was tea and toast and rumpled newspapers and guns and Chinese at 3am and giggling at crime scenes even though it's not decent. 

'You are a much better friend to me than I am to you, John,' Sherlock whispered, feeling that speaking louder would break the peace, would bring back the nightmares. He saw John smile at the corner of his eye and that something on his chest got warm again. Warmth was replacing the cold shivers, and it was safe now because the room smelled of _John_. 

John's hand reached his and Sherlock looked up, into those dark blue eyes that were so wise and warm. They stared at each other for what seemed like ages, in a comfortable silence. 

'You have your moments,' John said, finally, his smile widening just a little so that the corners of his eyes crinkled. 

The room was still dark, only being lit by the lamps from the street. John looked magnificent under that light, Sherlock thought. His hair looked more blonde, and he himself looked younger, softer. 

John, while watching Sherlock, also noticed how the light played with his features. How it changed the colour of his eyes, which were getting darker. How it made his cheekbones look sharper, his mouth more…

The tension in the room was suddenly palpable. Staring into each other's eyes, they edged closer and closer, until they were breathing the same air. A few inches, easy close inches, parted them, and it took Sherlock less than half a second to make up his mind and close the gap between them. John tilted his head upwards and closed his eyes as soon as Sherlock's lips touched his. It was chaste. Just a light touch, nothing more. 

But then John's hand was in Sherlock's neck, and his mouth was moving against Sherlock's, and everything went blank. No more thoughts, just feelings. The feeling of John's chapped lips in his. His fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. John's breath on his cheeks, and then the feel of John's tongue on his as their lips parted and the kiss became more avid. Hungry for more, Sherlock cupped John's cheeks with his hands, wanting to be filled with John. _John, John, John!_ his thoughts screamed, as John climbed on the bed, then laid atop Sherlock, never stopping the kissing. 

As John kissed his neck, Sherlock moaned, his hands free to roam John's back. With the sensation of John's muscles at his fingertips, Sherlock felt a twitch in his groin. His eyes widened for a split second, then closed again, immersing him all that was John. He raised the T-shirt was separated him from that tanned skin and felt it, pure, soft and strong. He felt those tiny blond hairs in the small of John's back, felt the small muscular spasms as he played with a particular sensitive part of the skin. Everything was John. It was new and exciting, and Sherlock wanted to map it all out, to commit him to memory. 

With Sherlock's touches on his skin, John could do nothing but groan and moan. He tasted that alabaster skin in Sherlock's neck - that bloody, ridiculous neck he'd been wanting to touch for _ages_ \- licking each freckle, nipping on the collarbone, making Sherlock squirm under him. He felt himself grow harder every second, with Sherlock's crotch grinding his. Their legs intertwined, thighs in friction. 

John moved upwards, biting Sherlock's earlobe, getting a whimper in response. Sherlock's nails scratched him, and the pain had never felt better. He continued to taste Sherlock's skin, as he felt the man under him start to remove his shirt. Quickly and efficiently, John threw his shirt away, and did the same with Sherlock's. He gasped slightly at the sight before him. That pale skin and those strong, lean muscles. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to taste that skin and be inside it. He _wanted Sherlock so fucking bad_. 

Sherlock's eyes were glued to John's torso. The ghost of the abs the used to have before returning from Afghanistan. The toughness of the skin. The scar on his shoulder. Sherlock lifted his hand and placed it on top of the scar, feeling it. John gasped and closed his eyes. He was straddling Sherlock, which made the sitting-up manoeuvre a bit complicated, but he managed. They were face-to-face now, John sitting on Sherlock's lap, his thighs around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's hand was on his scar, then it was removed and replaced by lips. Then a tongue, then their roles were reversed and it was Sherlock atop John, tasting that neck and that scar and all that history. 

With their skins touching, Sherlock was in full information overload. He had never gathered so much in so little time. The feeling of John's skins in his, the taste, the smell, everything was… _John_. But he wanted _more_. 

He moved downwards and licked John's left nipple. John squirmed and Sherlock grinned. Sensitive, then. Okay. He did it again, and then with the other, playing with John's sensitivity. It was glorious having his ex-army doctor sprawled under him like this, to do as he please. He felt John under his pants, and grew even more eager. 

Sherlock grabbed the waistband of John's boxers and removed them with gusto, enjoying the sight that awaited him very much. All of John, naked below him. John's eyes betrayed his lust and they also screamed for Sherlock. Sherlock then did the same with his own pyjamas and pants, threw them away, and drank John's gaze. 

With a hesitant hand, Sherlock touched John, who groaned in pleasure. He did it again, wrapping his hand completely around John, moving with with the rhythm of their heartbeats. Then John touched him and it was as if he had been born again. 

Sherlock had never been touched by anyone other than himself, but John's hand was glorious. His eyes on him were everything. Sherlock's mind was blank. Finally, empty but for the feelings of John and hands and hair, and the smell of gunpowder, sweat, laundry detergent and sex. 

And when they brought each other to climax, it was heaven. They were covered in semen, which was uncomfortable, but lying in each other's arm, which was blissful. Sherlock fell asleep with his head tucked under John's chin, resting on his chest. And John's arms were around Sherlock, protective, warm, safe…

* * * 

_Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. This is not good at all!_ John thought as he was roused from his blissful dreamland but a quiet snore. He opened his eyes to find a mass of black curls under his nose. Then the previous mind came flooding with memories and sensations and _no, no, no, no_. 

John tried to move away, but Sherlock's grip on him was like iron. He made a few gentle noise, trying to make Sherlock turn, which worked, and he was able to move out of the bed, picking up his clothes from the floor and putting them back on. Sherlock looked beautiful in the morning light, but John could not linger. No. Sherlock was "married to his work". Nothing to do here. It didn't mean anything. Just one friend helping another, that's all. Right? 

Right. 

… right.

* * * 

When Sherlock woke up, his bed felt extremely cold. He was lying on the pillow and knew something was missing. Or rather, some _one_. 

John was gone. Where was he? 

Sherlock got up, put on his dressing gown and walked out the room, rubbing the sleep off his eyes. Judging by the light hitting the window, it was a little past ten. And it was a Saturday, so John didn't have to work. 

'John?' Sherlock mumbled, walking into the kitchen only to find it empty. Odd. Normally at this time on a Saturday, John would be making his second cup of tea in order to prepare to read The Guardian after having finished with The Independent. He moved to the lounge, and it was also empty. Sherlock hummed and sat on his chair, grabbing his mobile that was sitting on the armrest. There was a text from John. 

_Went for a walk. Meet for lunch at Angelo's? JW_

Sherlock replied with a quick "yes", then moved to the bathroom for a shower. 

The memories of the night before hit him hard. And now he was paranoid. What would he do now? What would _they_ do now? Surely John wasn't looking for a relationship, especially with a man. It meant nothing, of course. Nothing. 

It had indeed been Sherlock's first time having intercourse with someone, but that was hardly anything special. Most men lost their virginity in their late teens, but Sherlock never felt like it. He was never curious about practicing something he had a sound theoretical knowledge on. Besides, it always seemed so messy and frankly a bit disgusting. 

But last night had been… astounding. He never knew one could feel so much without the help of drugs. The physical stimuli had been enough to provoke the most interesting sensations. He wanted to feel them again. With John, preferably. But that would probably be Not Good. 

John had fled. He had left, without even staying through his morning routine. There was something bothering him. The sex, most likely. Was it because it had been Sherlock? Or because Sherlock was a man?

The latter was least probable, because Sherlock had enough evidence to prove that John had certainly had more than one homosexual experience in the past, and that he was completely and utterly comfortable in his own body and self not to feel either ashamed or insecure. So the former must be the case. 

Did he not want Sherlock? He had to. Sherlock saw it in his eyes the night before. The lust, the need, the want. They were there. 

They could have been spur of the moment, though. Nothing but John's uncontrollable need to help Sherlock, to comfort him at all times. 

Oh, God, was it for pity? 

Sherlock finished his shower, changed into his usual suit-and-shirt combination, put on his shoes and coat, and left. It was barely after eleven, but he also needed to think. He needed to reassess his entire relationship with John. 

_It didn't mean anything,_ he reassured himself. Sherlock Holmes was not relationship material, and he couldn't lose John. So he was willing to forget everything. But he would never delete it. 

* * * 

Lunch was awkward. 

Sherlock and John were sitting across from each other at their usual table at Angelo's. John had the lasagne. Sherlock had the linguine. None of them were speaking. 

'Look--' John broke the silence, looking up from his place in determination. 'Last night…' 

'It meant nothing, John, it's fine,' Sherlock said, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. John seemed satisfied, though, smiling slightly and ducking his head. 

'Yes. Good. Glad we agree on that. I just… I don't want anything to change between us, Sherlock. It was just a one-time thing, and it won't happen again,' he said. Sherlock nodded, feeling a pang on his chest where the warm feeling used to be. _Interesting_ , he noted mentally, facing his pasta and trying to convince himself that John was right. Nothing should change. It was all… fine. 

* * * 

John had been concerned about Sherlock's drifting apart since their… "engagement". It wasn't really noticeable to anyone other them him, he supposed, since neither Greg nor Mrs Hudson noticed any difference. It was just the emotional distance. Not that Sherlock had ever been an overly emotional being anyway, but lately he was more and more difficult to read. They still shared banter and laughed and chased criminals, John still kept his blog and they still got take-away at impossible hours in the morning, but it was as if something had shifted. John didn't like to think about the possibilities of that. 

And that's when _she_ arrived. The Woman. Irene Adler, dominatrix, incredibly beautiful and enthralling. She was Sherlock's perfect match in every way. Wits, beauty, personality.

Mycroft had sent them there, to her house, where they were almost killed by American agents, and Sherlock got himself drugged by her, of course. 

After calling Lestrade, John managed to get Sherlock back to Baker Street and into his bed. He couldn't help but shiver at the sight of it. The memories came back, but he had to lock them away, far and safe. No good thinking about these things when they were far from unreachable. 

Of course, when he "woke up" from his drug-induced coma-like sleep, Sherlock could only think about The Woman. He didn't talk about her, but John could tell where his mind was. 

It didn't help that every time Sherlock got a text, the moan rang. _Her_ moan. 

John wondered if she did that to taunt him. 

It wasn't working. 

At all. 

By Christmas, they had all but forgotten her. Well, John had. Mostly. Save for he moans on the phone, which Sherlock refused to change. Over fifty now. 

They were at their homey Christmas party, with wine, friends and music - brilliantly provided by Sherlock of all people! - when the news came. Well, first was the phone. Miss Adler's phone was now in Sherlock's possession, and, as they found out later that evening, she was dead. 

And that was it for Sherlock. Sulking to the maximum now, composing sad music on his violin, not uttering a single word for days. He looked… broken-hearted. And John hated himself for being angry. And he hated Irene for doing this to his friend. 

So when New Year's came and he was kidnapped by "Anthea" again - thinking foolishly it was for Mycroft - he was a little more than surprised to see Irene Adler standing in front of him, looking very much alive indeed. 

'Tell him you're alive,' was the first thing he said. Nothing else mattered, only that Sherlock knew the truth, so he could… do as he pleased with his feelings. 

She accused them of being a couple. They weren't. John didn't let that happen. Because Sherlock was not a couple-type person. He wouldn't be able to function, he'd feel stuck, he'd resent John, and they worked as friends. They worked well, like a well-oiled machine. 

'I'm not gay,' he said, which was technically true. He did like women, after all. 

She was gay, and yet here they were. Indeed. Pulled together by the gravitational pull of Sherlock Holmes. By his brain and beauty. Only Miss Adler was the one to catch his eye, to break his heart. 

Then she texted him. And Sherlock was there. Had been there, all along. John followed him home, hoping he wouldn't be sulking even more, only to find that they had been attacked by those American agents from before. They had hurt Mrs Hudson and that was enough to push Miss Adler from his minds from a few hours. 

* * * 

Shopping with Sherlock was a somewhat tiresome experience. When they finally managed to leave the shop, it had been almost an hour and a half, which was an hour more than John usually took to do the shopping. But at least he managed to get a nice bottle of wine, which was always good. 

'So what are you planning to do about Miss Adler? I mean, she's not dead,' John said, summoning up the courage after almost two weeks. Sherlock sighed in annoyance. 

'Obviously,' he muttered. 'I won't do anything. We have the phone, that's it.' 

John nodded. 'Good, good.' Then Sherlock gave him a strange look followed by a raised eyebrow. 'What?' 

'You're jealous.' 

'Excuse me?' 

'Why would you be jealous of Miss Adler? You said yourself what we did didn't mean anything,' Sherlock commented in the most neutral of tones. John felt his ears turn red as he shook his head. 

'I'm not! I'm not jealous!' 

'I suppose it's understandable. You've been alone since Christmas, since that _girlfriend_ of yours broke up with you.' They had reached the entrance of 221b now. John opened the door and let them both in. 

'I'm not feeling lonely.' 

Sherlock shrugged off his coat once they reached the flat and smirked. 'Sure.' He then walked to his room and a few seconds later, called John in. John went with a furrowed brow, not liking what was waiting there at all. 

Irene Adler. Sleeping in Sherlock's bed. Wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. 

John could have killed her with the rage that started to bubble up inside him, but he suppressed it and went back to the kitchen to put away the wine. 

* * * 

Apparently having Miss Adler as a guest was worse than being kidnapped by her. John was growing more and more annoyed by the second. He needed to leave. And when the flirting began, he almost exploded. 

'Hamish,' he said, and both geniuses looked at him, startled to discover that they weren't alone. 'John Hamish Watson, in case you're looking for baby names.' There. A joke. Jokes always made things better. Except that this didn't. No. 

The flirting continued, with Sherlock taking (unwilling?) part of it as well. And when he managed to solve her puzzle in a matter of seconds, John knew he was smitten. It was his cue to leave. 

Sherlock had propped himself on his chair, and Irene sat opposite to him in John's. Sherlock was thinking, so he wouldn't be talking for a few hours. 

'I'm heading off now,' he informed her. Miss Alder looked at him and smiled. It could be called sweet if John didn't know how vicious she could be. 'Just so you know, he tends to keep talking to me after I leave.' He gave get a sad smile and left, closing the door behind him silently as to awake his friend from his reverie. 

* * * 

John walked aimlessly around London for what seemed like hours before entering a seemingly nice pub, which was moderately full. Smiling faces having dinner, men and women watching the day's sport - football, John observed, choosing to ignore it - while John himself only wanted to have a pint and a think about his life. 

After about an hour of wallowing, he ordered another one - his second, because John was not his sister and he refused to drown his sorrows with alcohol - and sighed deeply. 

'What's troubling you?' asked a voice on his right. It was a pretty girl, late-twenties-early-thirties, ginger hair, smile on her freckly features. 'I've been watching you for the past half hour, and it's like you're in a trance.' 

John chuckled. 'Half an hour? You're a bit creepy, aren't you?' The girl laughed and shook her head. 

'I came with a few girlfriends to for happy hour, but they got a bit too excited over the match. I'm more of a tennis person myself, so…' she smiled again and took a sip of her Martini. John didn't even know they served Martinis in pubs. 'I'm Louise.' 

'John. Nice to meet you,' they shook hands and she grinned once more. 

'So, what's troubling you? A lady-friend?' 

John laughed and shook his head. 'More of an insane-best-friend-slash-flatmate thing…' 

'But not only that…' 

'What?' 

'Well, John, no one spends an hour staring into space thinking about their "insane best friend/flatmate" if that's all they are,' she commented, shrugging lightly and smiling at her glass. 'What happened, then?' 

So John told her. Because why go to a pub to drown on your sorrows if you've got no one to turn to? There needs to be someone to listen to the complaints and grievances, otherwise he'd just be a lonely guy at a pub with no purpose. 

He told her about the meeting at Harry's party, and then at the train. Then he told her about Stamford and dinner at Angelo's, about them living together and their cases, and about Moriarty, the bomb, the dream and the sex. He told her everything. She was a stranger, no bias. And she asked the right questions, and listened carefully. He told her about The Woman and about the flirting. By the time he was done, another hour, maybe two even, had gone by and John felt his chest unclench a bit. 

'Whoa,' was all she said. John gave get an odd look. 

'What do you mean?' 

'Well, it's obvious, isn't it?' she asked, smirking. John didn't think it was obvious. He asked her again and she shook her head, then looked at her watch. 'Look, I have to go. But just think. Go through all you've just told me, and you'll see. It was nice to meet you, John. I hope it all works out,' then a tall blonde lady with a drunken smile approached Louise and pulled her away, leaving John to his owns musings. 

What had he told her? Jus the story. 

Then something clicked. The way Sherlock's eyes looked when they were having lunch the day after. How he seemed a bit defeated, but quickly pulled himself together. He wanted it. He wanted _them_ , even if just for a second. 

And truthfully, so did John. 

It was no surprise for John that he loved Sherlock. Of course he did, he'd kill and die for him. But now he… he was _in love_ with him. With every pore in his skin, every hair on his head, every stupid, ridiculous habit of his. 

So he put his jacket on and ran out the pub. He didn't care if Irene was there to listen, or if Sherlock was in one of his sulking moods - John would speak and he would be heard! 

He ran until he reached Baker Street, then opened the door as quickly as he could, running up the seventeen steps without taking a breath. He could not lose his courage now. 

The door of 221b was open, so he barged in, looking around the flat to find Sherlock staring out the window, alone. Miss Adler was gone. 

'It was "Sherlocked",' he said in a dull voice. John raised an eyebrow, aware that the detective couldn't see him. 'The password was "Sherlocked".' 

'Amusing,' John said, panting slightly from the run. 'But I really couldn't give a shit.' Sherlock turned to face him. 

'I thought you had gone out for the evening. Sarah's sofa, perhaps?' he was trying to be hurtful now, but John was having none of it. He took two strides towards Sherlock and looked up defiantly. 

'No, I'm here,' he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

'Clearly, John, you are standing right in front of me.' 

'No, no. I'm _here_ now. Here.' he gestured between the two of them. 'I don't want to be anywhere else. Because, Sherlock, I love you.' 

Sherlock's eyes widened and the atmosphere in the flat got palpably tense. John smiled and went on, because he had a whole speech prepared for this. 'I love that you turn your coat collar up so you look cool. I love that even if you say you don't eat on cases, if I put a plate of chocolate Hobnobs in front of you, you'll devour it. I love that face you make when you look at me like I'm from another planet. I love that even though you are the cleverest man I know, there are still moments when you are innocent and silly. I love that you are the last person I talk to before I go to bed and the first one I see when I wake up. And it's not because I'm jealous of Irene or because I'm desperate and alone, it's because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.' There. He said it. Now the ball was in Sherlock's court, and, but God, John wished he'd say something. 

'John…' 

John smiled and nodded. 

'I hate you, John,' Sherlock began, staring at the floor, fists clenched. John's face fell and his stomach dropped. 'I hate that you are so ordinary and that there shouldn't be anything special about you. I hate that you insist on reading two newspapers on Saturday because it doesn't make any sense whatsoever. I hate it, John. I hate your cooking, I really do. It's rubbish, even for my tastes. And I hate that even though you are so utterly _normal_ and _ordinary_ , you are the most extraordinary person I know, and I can't help myself around you. I hate that I'm addicted to you, to everything about you, even these ridiculous jumpers you insist upon wearing,' Sherlock finished and looked up, looking a little flushed. John gave him a small smile and tilted his head upwards. Sherlock took that as a sign - thank goodness for that! - and pulled him forward, kissing John deeply and thoroughly. 

And he never let go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the few OOC-ness of this, but I couldn't make it work otherwise. Also, you'll notice a bit of '10 Things I Hate About You' there, which was accidental, but worked quite well, I think...  
> Thanks for reading! Any comments would be appreciated!  
> Also, if you want to talk to me about prompts or any other stories, my url on tumblr is bagginswatson.


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